King of Fools & Slave of Folly
by Randomiss
Summary: Joffrey— a lifetime's worth of games, all marked by a cruelty beyond the human understanding, yet kissed by a kindness in the very end. In the arms of mother Death, the King is home at last.


**King of Fools & Slave of Folly**

The fires of a thousand dragons rush through his throat. That black reptile that has wrapped itself around his neck and wants to squeeze until it suffocates him tightens its grip. He is on the ground now, he somehow manages to figure out through the fog of pain, the insides of his stomach pouring out his slack mouth. It is ungraceful, he thinks, not kingly. He can't allow himself to fall in such a state before his realm. It is his wedding, he emmust/em be kingly. But hundreds of blades are sent to dance across his core— an all-consuming, crazed dance, and suddenly, he doesn't care anymore. Around him, people yell and shove each other.

"Save the King! Help is Grace! Someone call a maester! Hail to King Tommen of the House Baratheon, first of His name!"

They are all mantras in his ears, ancient chants in a tongue he no longer holds his own— the noble fools of his realm sing the song of madness. The dreadful snake around his throat keeps choking. _Not a snake_, a grim voice corrects, it's death. _So dies King Joffrey of the House Lannister._ What kind of nonsense is this? He is no Lannister, he is a Baratheon. Who dares utter such disgusting lies? He shall have their tongue out for just the impudence of intimidating his claim is not outright.

He needs a gulp. A gulp of wine and this thing that sits aground halfway down his throat will pass, he knows it will. He's not afraid. He knows that everyone shall marvel at his bravery once this is through. He only needs a gulp. Where is his cup bearer? Where is his uncle? Ah, there he is, standing ridiculously short and useless as always. He is holding the goblet, his golden, artfully engraved goblet. There are lions, stags and roses crawling around the line of the cup, glimmering and entangled together. It is meant to signify a union, but Joffrey only sees war. The lions claw and roar at the frightened stags, yet sneaky roses wrapp their barbed tentacles around them both. It's feral and he likes it.

They are all fighting for him, Joffrey sees, _over_ him. They all wish to own him, to be close to him. But he belongs to no one— he is the _king_.

The agony is like a writhing beast inside his heaving, kingly chest.

What is his uncle waiting for? He is to serve him his wine! Joffrey raises from his mother's lap with effort, and her skirts swish in protest underneath him. How has he found himself in her arms in the first place? A thing of low importance. She is screaming still, shrill and utterly distasteful. Can't she see that she is embarrassing him? He wants to yell at her to stop, to put her womanish whimsy acage, but another course of smouldering lashes scourges his throat. He has no voice. His uncle, that imp, what is he doing? Joffrey can only watch in ire as the insolent monster has the nerve to tip off the contents of his chalice.

Wine spills, red like boiling blood and dense like molten steel.

No, no, this has to stop. He needs his wine. He will not stand this sort of presuming behavior, not under his reign. This Imp has been allowed far too much, Joffrey now realizes, and a blackness floods his mind. He reaches out a trembling hand. His uncle will be punished, but not before he serves the stupid wine. His insides are positively burning now, and he needs this gulp of redness more than ever.

Joffrey catches a glimpse of how his mother's foggy eyes follow the imaginary line that his extended hand portrays, and she looks at his uncle with horrid spite carved on her face. She is no longer young and dazzling, but spite looks good on her, as do all the black emotions. Joffrey secretly admires how coldness agrees with his mother. It is in such moments that he is gladdened he resembles her in looks.

His uncle now. This creature needs to know its place. Joffrey lets his hand dither in the air a little longer. The moment his uncle looks at him with those miscreated, scheming eyes, the king begins to panic. These eyes are saying emyou will die/em. Joffrey just wants him to serve the wine, as is his duty. Shrewish little wight. Someone should go make him do it. Someone _must_. Can't these fools around him see their king commands it? The wine, he needs the wine. It hurts, that thing inside him, it stings, it scratches, it eats him alive.

He falls back in the arms of his mother, and his eyes shoot up to look at her. She stares back, and Joffrey recognizes such horror swimming in her greenish orbs that he recoils. Is he really dying? His mother whispers something, but there are beetles buzzing in his ears and he cannot hear a thing. Her hair falls down her shoulders like a golden waterfall; it shields them both, Joffrey tells himself, his mother's mane will shield them, so he is safe. Her eyes begin to water and turn to beads of glass and marble. As he keeps looking at them, Joffrey makes out the contours of his own reflection. It's bloody, gored, emdead/em. He is shaking uncontrollably, and can't will himself to feel safe anymore.

His mother cannot keep him safe, for death is coming. What good is she then? What good is _everyone_? Where_ is_ everyone? Why is no one there to help? They are all gone in a puff of red smoke, down to the last half-witted fool. A scarlet curtain falls, spreads its rubric folds over his sight, and everything begins to fade away. His mother screams, and it's so loud that for a moment, Joffrey snaps out of his intoxication. But her cry dies out, and so does the soft, throbbing sparkle of life that still lingers within him.

_Scream, mother_, he now wishes to command, _scream until you breathe no more._ Her screams connect him to reality. But she screams no more, her roars reduced down to yelps, to sobs, to chants, to nothing. His mother cannot keep him safe. It hurts.

It's all blurred now. His mother's face darkens and roots to a world Joffrey no longer belongs to. Nothing has its colors anymore, and the tones around him are impossible. And suddenly, a vividness arises. It lurks behind his mother's shoulder, hangs over her very form. It's black and reeks of ashes; it's a monster; it's the Stranger. It is an incarnation of a wondrous silhouette, imminent like a dark omen, like a grey cloud, like a shadow cast over all the light there is. It blacks away the sun that soars in the sky behind his mother's head, it sucks away the golden threads entwined in her hair. It's there for him and Joffrey know it.

All of a sudden, he embarks on a journey on the saddle of the burning winds. A journey back across the lands of life, _his_ life. One look back upon his deeds and doings, the final and the first.

It's their arrival back at Winterfell, the place it all begun. His beautiful, flame-haired bride smiles timidly at him, and he rewards her with a charming, daring grin. It is a dance of eyes— he leads, she follows restless the entire evening long. Come nightfall, they must part, but each knows they are to meet each other's eyes and lips and flesh many a time the years to follow.

Then the little sister of his pretty bride is found in danger. Joffrey rushes in and fights off the lech who dares lay a hand on her; the forest dog that lunges at him shortly after stands no chance— he swings his blade as expertly as no other boy his age, and cuts through the beast as though his sword was forged in Valyria. Afterwards, the Stark girls's father delivers him his gratitude, his mother calls him brave and fair, and his father names him real man and heir to the Iron Throne.

Then his father dies, and, as the new king, Joffrey Baratheon, first of His name, is wise and courageous enough to punish the traitor coated in a mantle of kindness. Eddard Stark pays the fee for his unforgivable crimes, and the crowds now know they have a righteous king. Next comes the treasonous attack of uncle Stannis— one that king Joffrey and his brave knights gracefully bring down at the Battle of Blackwater, thus unifying houses Baratheon, Lannister and Tyrell ever last. The union between the crown and the Tyrells is further fueled by his betrothal to their finest rose. He insists on staying true to his sacred vows, for he is honorable, _good_, but is then freed to follow the summon of his heart in sight of gods and men. The Stark girl is, after all, a traitor's blood.

Kind king Joffrey still treats her with respect, even when her wicked brother seeds discord into the heart of his beloved realm. When Robb Stark falls beneath the heel of justice too, the king is content to enjoy the peace he has brought upon his underlings. And why shouldn't he? He has his lovely rose bride, he has his loyal councilors, he has his mother and his grandfather and the pride of two almighty dynasties coursing through his very blood. He should indeed enjoy the peaceful days to come— he has deserved every bit of fortune.

He has indeed.

The shadow behind his mother's lily contours stirs and smiles. _It was a good life._

Yes, yes it was. The shadow's not unkind. And Joffrey feels his lips curve up in a smile as well. Or is it just the blood pouring out the corner of his lips? It matters not. He smiles inside. The images of his mother and the ghostly demon at her back mix together, and the grim creature that is now leaning over him and holds him gently in its arms is all that's left. This unearthly being is his mother and his death. It is telling him it's all the way it is supposed to be. It's all the way it is.

It's good then, if it's the way it is. In the arms of mother Death, the King is home at last. He doesn't close his eyes. Why should he? It's all black and white and it is not unpleasant.

He allows the blackness to sweep him away, steal him and turn him into something else.

It burns. It's all fire now.

* * *

><p><em>I'm completely spent. *whew*<em>


End file.
